


Learning Curve

by mresundance



Series: Unusual Symmetry [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, Gen, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have some mutual learning to do. Short, fluffy piece, set in the same universe as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/117682">Unusual Symmetry</a>.</p><p>Brief mention of sexual assault in this one. Nothing graphic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning Curve

Kissing Sherlock was the best idea in the universe. John was surprised he didn't think of it earlier. Much earlier. Underneath him, Sherlock was all warm and wet and making pleasant little surprised sounds. 

Earlier the day they had wrapped a case. Sherlock was still languishing, content and even calm, everything feral and taut about him relaxed. They fell to sitting on the couch watching telly. Sherlock had smiled to himself the whole time. John had enjoyed watching the light from the telly fall across Sherlock's softened features. Studied the curve of his ear under his dark curls. Sherlock had still been wearing his black coat, and, at one point, pulled it tighter up and around himself. Like a child and a safety blanket, John had thought, suddenly dizzy with tenderness for Sherlock. And had leaned in to kiss him. 

Sherlock's eyes were open and John could see the way the silver in them darkened around the edges of his irises, just a little. They were sharp eyes, focused. At some point, John thought, Sherlock was wearing the very same face as when he did dissections or mulled over crime scenes. But he let that thought pass as he put his hand up and mussed Sherlock's hair.

John pressed into Sherlock, arousal building. Slid his fingers under the waist of Sherlock's trousers. And Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders, pushing the two men apart. 

"No," he said. 

John's lips stung and he stared at Sherlock.

"What?" he said. Then something began to hurt in his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean . . ."

Oh, you idiot, John, he thought. 

"No, it's not that," Sherlock said quickly, hands pinwheeling. "No, I like you. I like you very much John --"

"Just not like that," John murmured.

"No, just. No, that's not what I meant at all," Sherlock snapped. "I . . . don't like sex."

There was a silence between them. Downstairs, John heard Mrs. Hudson humming to herself. 

"What?" John managed finally.

The grin on Sherlock's face was lopsided.

"I don't like sex," he said.

"Oh," John said. 

"John?"

"I'm thinking Sherlock."

Sherlock's face collapsed and it was the first time John had ever seen such a thing. 

"Well," Sherlock stood up, pushing John onto the floor. "In that case," he pulled his coat tight around him and went to his room, slamming the door behind him.

"Sherlock," John said. "Sh-Sherlock!'

He thumped on Sherlock's door.

No answer.

"Sherlock, if you do not answer me I will bloody break down this door. I will."

"Mrs. Hudson will murder you if you do," Sherlock drawled from behind the door. "Besides, I am occupied."

"Sherlock, please." John leaned into the door, forehead pushing against the rough grains of the wood. Christ, John, you've really bollocksed this one up, haven't you?

"I'm busy."

John sighed and gave up and retreated to his own room, pulling the covers hard around his chin.

* * *

In the morning, John had a text message waiting for him.

> Need soap.

> \- SH

John threw his phone away, hearing it bounce off the walls of his room and thud on the floor. He listened for Sherlock in the flat. All he heard was London traffic outside, the occasional creak of Mrs. Hudson below.

Sherlock wasn't in the kitchen, or his room, but lounging on the sofa; hands triangled under his chin, eyes shut, face smooth and unlined. He looked almost peaceful. John had the urge to pull all the sofa cushions out from Sherlock, one by one.

Instead, he took a deep breath and went to make himself some tea. His mother had very firmly believed that a cuppa could resolve almost anything and everything wrong with the world, or, at the least, make a person feel a little better. It gave John a moment to think, to compose himself. When he returned to the sitting room, he held his mug of tea in his hands. The heat anchored and comforted him. 

"Sherlock," he said.

"Did you get the soap?" Sherlock said, not opening his eyes.

"No. Sherlock, we need to talk," John said over Sherlock's disgusted noise. "We need to talk about last night."

"There is nothing to talk about," Sherlock said. "I know what you're going to say. You needn't bother."

"Oh do you, now?" John said. "Okay, what am I going to say then?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes from under his lids. "You will tell me that there is no-one on this earth who does not like sex, which is an illogical and ill-drawn conclusion, by the way. You will tell me sexual urgers are natural and biological and hardwired into me -- also illogical -- and not entirely true. You will then inquire about whether or not I have sought medical aid on this particular problem. You will tell me I should see a doctor and be 'cured', or, that I just haven't found the right bloke yet to 'light my fire' or some other idiotic turn of phrase people use."

Sherlock opened his eyes, sidelong glance exacting as a razor. 

"No, Sherlock, no," John said after a moment. "I wasn't --"

Sherlock blinked. "You will tell me I was molested and this was the root of my sexual dysfunction and I should see a therapist. I was molested, once. We were thirteen and he was a classmate. I poisoned him after. He had the nerve to live. But that is not the root of anything in particular."

"No, I wasn't going to say that either," John said. 

Sherlock looked confused. 

"I just wanted to ask you some questions," John sat on the coffee table, ignoring the pile of magazines which he'd forced onto the floor in the process. He clung to his mug of tea like a life-raft. 

"Questions?" Sherlock said, as if testing the word.

"Yes."

"Such as?"

"When you say you don't like sex -- does that mean -- any and all sexual activity, or just -- some of it?"

He sipped his tea. Sherlock looked furious. 

"I. Have a list," Sherlock answered finally. "An extensive list. Of things I will not do and things I am willing to do. But the latter is very short. And the former is very long. I could give it to you, if you like."

"Uhm," John said. "Couldn't you just tell me? Sum it up a bit."

Sherlock blew air through his nose. "I have tried that in the past and people always just find ways around it. Hence, the list. The list is detailed and organized. It has main clauses and subclauses --"

"You make it sound like a legal contract," John found himself chuckling. Sherlock glowered. John said: "Oh."

Sherlock closed his eyes. For a moment, John thought he was done with the conversation, but then he said: "I don't like any sex. Not anything traditionally defined as sex, anyways. But I do like kissing," he looked at John again. "And I do like -- certain kinds of touching. Just not -- sex. Or anything sexual. And kissing for me is not like kissing is for you."

"It's not sexual?"

"Correct. It's more -- tactile. Enjoying sensations and enjoying that you enjoy them. But it isn't connected to desiring you. Not sexually."

"Oh."

John drank his tea.

"Last night, you said you liked me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

"Is that true?"

"Of course it's true. I don't bother saying what's not true."

"So you like me," John said slowly. "But you don't -- want to have sex with me."

"No. It's more -- romantic -- if you will," Sherlock waved a hand at "romantic" like he wanted the word crawl into a hole and never resurface. 

"So," John said. "If we both like each other -- like -- romantically -- isn't it possible that we could . . . you know?"

Sherlock snorted.

"I don't _date_ ," he grimaced. "If that's what you're suggesting. We can't have -- a relationship."

"Why not?"

"Because it's impossible," Sherlock sounded exasperated at this point.

"But why?"

"Socratic method really doesn't suit you John."

"But no, seriously, Sherlock, why won't it work?"

Sherlock scowled.

"Because you will want to fuck me and I won't want to fuck you and eventually you will grow tired of this situation and strongly dislike me and leave me or both. Is that clear?"

John sighed. He had a headache and he was out of tea. 

"I can't help being who I am any more than you can Sherlock. All I am saying is that I want a decent shot at -- whatever it is we could have. It's worth a go, at least, to see if we don't work."

John stood up and went to the kitchen to make more tea and some toast. He didn't hear Sherlock come in behind him. 

"Christ -- Sherlock --"

This time Sherlock kissed him. It was quick and sharp with teeth and Sherlock grabbing the back of his head and wrapping his arm around his waist and they kissed until John thought his head would explode from want of air. 

They popped apart. John stared at Sherlock, dazedly.

Sherlock licked his lips and made an small "hm" noise.

"You had the PG Tips, not the Twinings. With no sugar, milk, or cream."

"Yes," John murmured. 

Sherlock stroked John's cheek with his knuckles.

"I like the taste of you," he said. 

John laughed.


End file.
